Pirate's First Gleamings
by Jennifer Lynn Weston
Summary: Glimpses from Jack's formative years and beyond, featuring the first hat he ever loved. PG for just a trace of harsh language.
1. Chapter 1

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

----

The boy is six years old.

It's a sunny day, by London standards, and it's midway between noon and dinner. So Jack is on his way to church.

As he approaches the wide carved-wood door, he's careful to remove his hat- a frayed ruin of faded black silk. His Mum has made a point of teaching the boy proper manners. "If you're polite, people won't chase you off as much," she's told him, and it seems to be so.

The boy smiles up at the glowering doorkeep. "Good afternoon, Deacon. Kin I come in?"

The Deacon is pale, balding and sour, but they both know the rules here; even dirty little street urchins may enter this church, so long as they keep to the rear and stay quiet.

"Yes, but not fer long- theer's ta be a weddin' soon." As he scrambles inside, the boy hears the man grumble, "'Suffer the little children...'"

Jack resents being called 'little' because it's all too true, but forgets it as he locates his usual spot against the back wall. He sits straight, crossing his legs, gripping the brim of his precious hat with both hands.

The boy's timing is just right. Afternoon sunlight is falling full against the one stained-glass window at the other end of the church, making it blaze. It's a picture of a bearded man wearing a very long white shirt and a blue sheet. A much smaller man and woman stand on either side; the man wearing an equally long purple-red shirt, the woman a deep blue cloak and skirt. All three have huge gold coins behind their heads.

It's the colors Jack loves; vivid and sparkly as the jewelry he's seen on rich people, in the well-off parts of town. Looking at this window is even better- it's much larger, and he can stare directly at it without being told to "Move along!"

The boy drifts into his usual daydream, about chests crammed full of such jewels. He's heard many a dockside yarn about these things, hidden in faraway caves or buried on tiny islands. If he found just one, he could have everything he and his Mum must now do without. They could march into the market and buy great slabs of pork (Mum having a baffling aversion to beef), piles of toffee, every kind of fruit and nut there. And thick woolen coats and stout boots, to keep them warm on even the coldest winter days.

Even better; he would go down to the docks and buy his own ship- a big one! The largest merchantman there! Then he and Mum could sail away, wherever they wanted to- India and Madagascar and China and the Spanish Main. All the wonderful places Mum has told him about. He could find more treasures- better ones- so they could...

His pleasant reverie is shattered by hard push on his shoulder. Deacon's voice snaps, "The weddin' party's arrivin'. Be on yer way, now!"

The boy scampers to the door, shooting a final glance to the brilliantly colored light before darting back onto the dusty street. Carefully he replaces his oversized hat, grimacing a bit as his stomach growls- his appetite's been roused by his visions of endless foodstuffs.

Jack checks the position of the sun. It's the late half of the afternoon. Grinning, the boy turns down the lane that'll take him to the marketplace. It will be crowded and busy at this time of day- there's a good chance he'll be able to nick a few sweets.

--

FINIS


	2. Chapter 2

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

--

The boy is seven years and one month old.

He's running fast as he can through an alleyway, lifting legs high to avoid entanglement with the trash. The familiar stench of mold, excrement, coal oil, and dead fish tells him he's approaching the river.

The pounding of his feet changes to squelching when he dashes out onto the muddy embankment. He risks a glance back to confirm the absence of pursuers, before slowing to a panting trot alongside the unnatural-colored water, past all manner of decrepit structures. As he rounds a dangerously leaning shack, Jack spots a familiar figure- curly reddish hair, ragged blue breeches, short clay pipe- seated atop a soggy wooden piling. His best mate, Billy.

Billy's full name is William Wallace, after the legendary hero of Scotland, whom Billy claims to be descended from. Jack has never expended much brain energy wondering whether that's true- it's not much more improbable than his own ancestry. What matters to him is, Billy's the one who taught Jack how to palm a coin.

Jack scrambles onto an adjacent piling, still breathing hard. Billy blows out a long smoke plume, before bestowing a benevolent glance. "Somethin' doin'?"

"Got nabbed in the market. Magistrate caught me w' me hand on a apple."

Billy lowers his chipped pipe, acknowledging this as a tale worthy of his full attention.

""e grabbed me arm an' were hollerin'- called me a thievin' foreign whelp- when there were some loud ruckus a few booths down. Magistrate glared at it, an' back ta me, an' yelled 'Ye'd better mend yer ways, boy!' an' let go o' me. He rushed fer the ruckus, an' I lit out t'other way. Fine luck, eh?" Jack concludes with a triumphant smirk.

But Billy's smudged face is grave. "Were ya wearin' that, when magistrate collared yah?" He gestures towards Jack's hat.

Jack's hand rises to grip the prized silk brim. "'Course I was!"

"Then yah'd best get shed o' it," the older lad warns. "Magistrate prob'ly won't recognize yah, next time yah cross 'is eye, but he'll likely remember that hat, it bein' so stand-out. He'll collar yah agin, an' they'll lock yah up in the deepest pit o' Newgate, an' mebee never tell yer Maw where yah be!"

Jack looks stricken. If any of his other mates told him this, he'd assume the threat was exaggerated- his scruffy social set takes delight in scaring each other. Billy, though, he regards as a trustworthy source.

The boy lifts down his headgear, regarding it mournfully. It was a worn-out old evening hat ages ago, when he so-fortuitously dug it out of a rag pile. It's notably shabbier now- threadbare along every edge, brim starting to sag loose, the green silk band splotched and colorless. Still, by urchin standards it's a rare adornment - his most prized possession, other than Uncle Matt's toy boats. The prospect of giving it up cuts him deeply.

Practical Billy tires to console him. "Should fetch a good swap. Mike'll likely trade yah one o' 'is tops fer it."

But Jack can't stand the mental image of sneerful Mike in his hat. "No. Don't want no one else ta wear it." Mustering all the determination he can, Jack announces, "I'll give it a proper burial at sea."

The larger boy checks the sun's position, as best he can through the overcast. He employs his best Protective Big Brother voice- after all, he's a year older than Jack, and half-again his size. "No time fer that now- yah won't make it ta docks an' back afore dark. But, if yah throw it inta river here, that'll take it out ta sea jus' ez sure."

Jack ponders for a minute. He balks at the idea of consigning his beloved hat in the river, the same way people do with their garbage. But, from what Billy's said, it's dangerous to keep it any longer. He can easily imagine the predatory Magistrate, crouched behind the rickety stairs to the tiny two-room flat, waiting for him to come home wearing the tell-tale hat. Worse- he can imagine Mum's distress, watching him being hauled off to jail.

The boy clenches his small jaw. He can't risk it.

His arm, though thin, is tough from usage- when he throws, the black crumple soars surprisingly far, before hitting the river with a vague splash.

The dark lump settles but stays afloat, as the current bears it off in the direction of the docks. Both boys watch 'til it disappears- Billy out of respect, Jack with growing resolve. The hat, he decides, is his forerunner, marking the route he'll someday follow.

"I'm goin' ta sea, too, when I'm big. Might be, I'll find my hat there."

--

FINIS


	3. Chapter 3

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

--

The boy is seven and three-quarters.

He's dawdling beside a small riverbank cove, using a mud-smeared reed to propel a tiny carved sloop- the only survivor of his once-enviable fleet. Mum has traded all his other toy ships for foodstuffs. It grieved Jack to lose them, but his complaining stomach understood.

For the past several months, it seems like everything has been getting worse. The store of coins Da left with them, and the spices from Uncle Matt, have been used up, so Mum has to make their meals smaller and blander. Uncle Matt has been some help; unfortunately, an able-bodied seaman doesn't have lots of pay to spare. And Mum's got a cough that won't go away, so has to keep buying that awful-smelling syrup from the warty woman two lanes over. She has no choice- people don't want to have their fortunes told by someone who can't stop coughing.

The sky above the river has dimmed to iron gray, and Jack's stomach is rumbling for dinner, but it's too early to go home. Mum has to stay out later now, trying to earn at least a little more than what her medicine costs. Jack sometimes wonders if fortunetelling really is all she's doing. Very often, she comes home looking far more worn-out and bitter than she should, if she'd just spent the day looking into stranger's hands and making up stories.

He never lets himself wonder about it for long.

Not wanting to misplace his last boat in the failing light, Jack fishes it from the water and shoves it, dripping, into a pocket. He makes his way along the rancid bank, picking up bits of trash- broken shingles, algae-covered rope bits, and such- to test how far across the river he can throw them. Anything to distract himself from the hunger pangs.

Following long habit, the boy periodically scans his surroundings for other people. Adults, especially men, he must keep a distance from; kids he can be slightly less wary about. But, for the moment, he seems to be the only one on this stretch of riverbank. Somewhat to his disappointment- he's been spending lots of time by himself lately. He has not seen Billy since the day they sent his hat out to sea, and has no idea what's become of him. Asking the other urchins about Billy only got him a slew of lurid speculations, involving giant river snakes or cannibal bargemen. He's even gone so far as to ask a magistrate- the almost-friendly one with the ginger mustache, at Tilbury Fort- but he was no help. All street rats look alike to him.

It's Jack's earnest hope that Billy's family has just moved to a better part of town, as his own Mum wants to do. Billy had a father living at home, so it is possible... maybe even probable. Jack just wishes Billy would come back to visit now and then, for Jack misses him terribly; the only one of his mates he could talk to about anything, or count on to be truthful (at least about important stuff.) There's moments when the boy would consider trading his chance of becoming a sailor, for having Billy's companionship again.

Lights from windows on the further bank are starting to decorate the water with reflected yellow splotches. This is the time of day when the river starts to look almost pretty, and also when his Mum wants him to come indoors, whether she's home or not. This evening, Jack feels too disheartened to stay out any longer, so he makes his way between the shabby buildings to their boarding house.

As the boy tops the outside staircase, he's encouraged to see a bit of blue fabric sticking out from under their door- Mum's way of signaling she's home. Maybe she has dinner all prepared!

Jack eagerly turns his key, darts inside... freezes. There are voices coming from the inner room- his Mum's, sounding more high-pitched and excited than he can remember, and a man's voice. Not Uncle Matt's, or the landlord's. Jack creeps to take a cautious look into the sleeping area. There's a dark-haired stranger in there, facing the other way. Very tall and strong-looking- just the sort of blighter Jack's been warned about! Right next to his Mum!

Jack seizes the longest stick in the woodpile- a broomstick scavenged from the street- swings it overhead and down, with all the force he can muster. It strikes the stranger's head with a solid THWACK- the man lurches forward, bellowing an oath.

Next instant, Mum is grabbing his arm. "Stop! Stop, Jack! It's your father!"

??...Father...??

The boy's jaw, and the broomstick, fall at the same time.

Mum's smile is uncharacteristically wide, her brown eyes dancing happily. She urgently grips the boy's shoulders. "Your father, Jack! He's come home, with lots of gold, just like he promised!"

Jack can only gape up at the tall man, who glowers down, rubbing the back of his head, his expression a combination of ire and admiration. "Fer such a skinny whelp, you've got a strong arm, Jonathan."

"It's Jack," the boy responds automatically, his mind awhirl. One minute ago, if someone had asked him what his father's voice sounded like, he would have had to make something up. But, hearing that rumbling tone, some long-buried recollection has started awake. This dark-maned hulk really is his Da.

"Now that we have money, we'll be moving to another apartment- a much better one, away from the river. You'll have proper clothes and feeding from now on. And you'll get an education, so you'll qualify for a better position than deckhand." The graying woman is virtually singing with joy. "And I'll never have to tell fortunes, ever again!"

The boy does not answer. After years of hearing about the wonderful things that will happen when his father returns, he's come to regard it (almost) as just another of Mum's fanciful yarns. He needs time to adjust to this being real, as he would if a flying wooden horse suddenly appeared on their doorstep.

The towering man shifts slightly. "'M sorry to take so long gettin' back, Chakori." Though Da's words are apologetic, his proud demeanor doesn't really match them.

"It wasn't your fault." Mum uses the hurt-but-forgiving voice which, up 'til now, Jack's only heard in connection with his own misdeeds. He experiences a tiny twinge of jealousy.

As if to compensate, Mum hugs her son close- he can feel her hands shaking between his shoulder blades, and the surge of her suppressed cough. Jack's stare is still fixed on his father, who looks slightly less threatening now. The boy supposes he can get used to him- he supposes he'll have to.

Mum finally pulls back, reaching swiftly to the bed top. "Here- he brought you a present."

The boy blinks at the object placed in his arms- a brown tricorn hat, made of the cleanest-feeling leather his fingers have ever touched. Huge.

"It's lots too big," he observes, hesitantly.

Mum lovingly pushes Jack's longish hair behind his ears. Her eyes brim with happy tears, telling him more than he ever realized about the worry she's been living with.

"That's all right, my little bird. You're going to have a chance to grow into it, now."

--

FINIS


	4. Epilogue

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney

--

The boy is eight years old today.

He uses both hands to settle the new dark canvas tricorn on his head, checking the fit. "It's a little loose."

The man who just gave it to him explains, "That's so you can grow into it, lad. 'Tis such a fine hat, you'll want ta be wearin' it fer a good long while." Captain Jack Sparrow carefully tugs the corner, centering it at the front. "There- 'makes you look like a proper seaman. Your Da'll be right proud to see that, next time you an' yer Mum come here."

The boy fidgets on the lush green grass, turning to gaze over the cliff edge. He's been here twice before- Mother considers this a very special place.

"That'll be just a little more 'en a year from now," he murmurs, watching the sun dip to touch the ocean.

Jack drapes an affectionate arm across the boy's shoulders, smiling at the same horizon. Both their faces glow amber-gold in the sunset.

"Aye. The wait's almost over, William."

--

FINIS


End file.
